Grief is the Downfall of Sentiment
by ParisNeverEnded
Summary: Irene Adler needs empirical evidence to believe that Sherlock Holmes is…dead. Post-Reichenback. Sherlock x Irene


**Grief is the Downfall of Sentiment**

Irene Adler needs empirical evidence to believe that Sherlock Holmes is…dead. Post-Reichenback

**A/N My personal life isn't going to well at the moment and the only thing getting me through the day is writing. I'm sorry this is so short, there might be more, there might not be. I also apologise profoundly for my grammatical mistakes, I'm sure there are loads. **

**Disclaimer: 'Sherlock' isn't mine instead belonging to the BBC**

* * *

She doesn't realise where she's going until she's halfway through the window.

She's crossed an ocean with shaky hands, refused all food and drink until she can be sure. She found out less than 24 hours ago, on her way to work in a different city, half way around the globe. The news had flashed up on her phone as she'd sat in the back of an outrageously tacky yellow taxi. It was there that she'd read it and read it and read it again. But almost immediately she refuted the claims. He could not be dead. The handsome detective with cheek bones to die for could not have been the one to fall from St. Barts. Sherlock Holmes did not die.

She couldn't remember redirecting the taxi driver to JFK or explaining to the suspicious Passport Control Officer why she had no luggage. She couldn't remember the flight across the Atlantic which she spent looking out the window, fighting the exhaustion of grief that was trying but to no avail, to consume her. She was still in denial, her grief would come. She couldn't remember the taxi ride from Heathrow; all she could remember was the chocked sob that crept up her throat as she read the news article on her phone.

Irene Adler had returned to London; the city watched like a Hawk by Mycroft Holmes. It was dangerous, but Irene Adler no longer cared. Love and sentiment made one do the most craziest of things at the stupidest hours. It was nearing One in the morning as she scaled the back wall of 221 Baker Street and expertly pushed her slender frame through the window. It was then that it hit her as she searched the flat for a being that was no longer there, a spector she could see or touch no more. She silently stepped across the kitchen, checked the bathroom and the living room where he had played her song, the Woman on the violin, where her initial attempts at seduction had failed and when unknowingly she had provided him with the key to his downfall. It was a testament to her love for him and quite frankly she was tired of hiding it, that she was back her after what he'd done to her. In many ways he had repented for his sins, he had then saved her in Karachi, he had pressed his lips to her scars and apologised over and over again in a very un-Sherlock kind of way.

She saw his violin resting against the wall, just underneath the window sill; the skull on the mantel piece and it was then that she could feel the tears brimming in her eyes; they clouded her vision as she stumbled to the one room she hadn't checked, the last remnant of hope and denial. Her refusal to belief was so strong that for a moment the empty room around her didn't register and she saw the shape of a man with messy black curls sprawled on the bed. But the ghost was gone within moments and even through her tears, as Irene quite literally fell onto the cold sheets , she knew he wasn't here. She inhaled the dying scent of a dead man from the pillow and a chocked sob finally erupted from her shaking frame. Irene Adler was a woman of class and prestige, not once since she was a little girl had she ever lost this much control. But then again, never in her years had she ever lost a loved one so dear to her than Sherlock Holmes. To begin with she'd only known him by reputation only, to say he exceeded her low expectations was an understatement. She was infatuated by his pureness and darkness all at once, he truly was the most remarkable man. He'd been the only person to both destroy her and save her and she loved him for it. Loved. Past Tense. She sobbed harder. She hit the damn pillow and screamed and screamed and screamed. How dare he die on her, how dare he, the only one she ever loved, die. She was quickly reminded of reality, how the good guys rarely win, how people rarely get their happy endings.

The door suddenly swung open. "Who's there?" Yelled a man.

Irene was oblivious, her sobs overriding any other sounds in the room. At first she didn't notice John Watson, brandishing his cane like a sword at the unknown intruder, but as she turned, mid cry she saw the small man standing shocked in the entrance. She'd completely forgotten that Sherlock had a room mate. Shit.

"Wha- What?" John's eyes bulged at the sight of a woman, more precisely The Woman, losing all sense of control on the bed. Sherlock's bed. "You're alive?" He questioned. He honestly would have thought he was dreaming had it not been for the hand that suddenly reached for his arm and he felt the solidness of the cold and shaky fingers that pressed into his skin.

"Is it true?" She whispered hoarsely, so silent his ears strained to hear her words.

But he understood alright and it broke him once more as it had done hours before hand as he'd watched that crazy man fall. He suddenly felt mute and his mind struggled to open his mouth to form the letters of that one simple word. "Yes."

Irene recoiled at the word as if it had physically burnt her. It was the wrong word, the wrong answer. She hadn't believed it in the back of the yellow cab because she needed evidence. Now the evidence was all in front of her and a first hand account had just confirmed her worse nightmare. She could no longer deny it, he was dead. "No." She said. "No." She repeated. "No." She yelled. "No." She fell back in exhaustion onto the bed, his bed. She stared at the ceiling, in her own little world and lost control, forgetting about the stout man mere metres away.

So much had happened in the last few hours, so much that was so surreal that John quite frankly didn't question the fact that the Woman, supposedly dead was breaking down on his dead friend's bed. She didn't notice when he left the room to the kitchen. He didn't bother to turn the light on, instead using the moon light that filtered through the windows to guide him. It was nearing one thirty in the morning, he hadn't been sleeping and it was an unrealistic expectation to think he would be doing so anytime soon. He put the kettle on and got the tea bags out as any British man would do in such a time of need, he patiently waited for the water to boil and dried to forget the chocked sobs coming from down the hall.

She didn't notice when he returned to the room, clutching a tea cup in one hand and placed in on the mahogany bedside table. She didn't notice his precedes until he coughed loudly and she turned suddenly. Her eyes were red and puffy and her hair was out of place.

"I made you tea." John said meekly, not really sure what should be said in situations like this, at times like this, given the fact that their mutual friend had died just mere hours previously.

"I should be going." She said, struggling to pull herself together.

"No."

Irene looked at him questionably.

"Stay." He said. "Stay."

"I'm sorry." She said, feeling ashamed at her outburst.

"Me too."

He came back to check on her a few hours later; her sobs and cries had long since died down and he found her curled up in a ball underneath Sherlock's sheets, clutching a pillow tightly. John didn't know all that had transpired between Sherlock and Irene and to be honest he didn't wish to know. But it was obvious something had happened, to make this cold hearted dominatrix grieve so hard for the consulting detective. John still wasn't a fan of The Woman, he doubted he ever would be, but John understood grief and the two held a fragile connection, a bond forged in grief over Sherlock Holmes. John was willing to give Irene Adler a chance to grieve for a man they both loved.

He checked on her later, when the sun had risen and the street below was bustling with people. She was gone. The only remnants of her stay was half a cup of stone cold tea and the ruffled sheets.

As John emptied the cup into the sink, Irene Adler was already half way to New York; make up on, hair up, heart sealed, never to love and never to break, again.


End file.
